


Under Du Weldenvarden's Leaves

by Coruscant



Category: The Inheritance Cycle - Christopher Paolini
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2018-05-15 23:53:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5805238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coruscant/pseuds/Coruscant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of one-shots, mainly from Arya's persepective, or about Arya, throughout the books because there is more to her than we see. The timeline varies, so spoilers abound.</p>
<p>(Each one-shot will have warnings as applicable)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Promises

**Author's Note:**

> This is after Islanzadi's death, but before Nasuada is crowned and Arya leaves for Du Weldenvarden. Please let me know what you think; any helpful criticisms or ideas for future one-shots are welcome.

 

Arya sat on a window seat in a long-forgotten room in the corner of Uru'baen, playing with a strand of her hair, staring blankly out of the window. They had _won._ She knew that it would take her years to come to terms with that simple truth. Of course, that wasn't what was gnawing at her heart, what was dominating her mind and emotions, leaving her numb inside. A few raindrops fell on the window and she watched them, her mind elsewhere.

The promise she had made still rang in her mind;  _“I will not die.”_ How ironic that had been, how strange that she, the one going into danger, following Eragon on a fool's errand, had lived and her mother, surrounded by elves and spellcasters and strong in sword and magic, with many more years of experience, had been the one to die. Arya had known somehow, that she would not perish, that she would endure, but the thought that her mother, the Queen, would die, was so unthinkable, so intangible that it had never crossed her mind. 

Yes, she had worried, for her mother and the multitudes of other elves putting themselves in danger, but she hadn't really believed that her mother could ever die. Especially not now, not when they were just beginning to understand each other, to understand that the other cared. To have her brutally torn away, with not even a chance at goodbye, as her father had been so many years ago, didn't seem real somehow. She almost believed that her mother would enter at any time, scold her for sitting around when there was so much to do and then smile cautiously, as she had done so many times over the past few weeks, to take the sting out of her words. Arya buried her head in her arms. How huge, how hopeless to conceive, that her mother was gone, gone forever, that they would never again argue, never again talk of the world, that her mother would never again return to Du Weldenvarden and walk beneath the leafy green branches.

And still her promise rang in her mind, that ironic promise, taunting her with it's fulfilment. “No,” Arya whispered, “it was not me who had to die mother, but you, even though you worried so and I did not, even though you were always cautious and I was not. You did not wish me to leave and perhaps, had I been with you, you would not have. I did not think, I...” she trailed off, still staring at the window. “Why did you do it? Why did you attack him? How did he win against you, mother? And how was it that  _Roran,_ who is human, prevailed where you could not? How could a human succeed where all the might of the elves had failed, twice? How did Eragon win where father failed and how did Roran win against such a monster?” She leant back against the wall, that one question refusing to leave her mind; how could Roran, a human, not even a spellcaster, win where her mother had failed, where countless elves had failed?

She returned her gaze to the window. Was that the price they had to pay, for ridding Alagaesia of Galbatorix? Her mother's life for theirs? More proof that no gods could exist in this world, that they would demand such a price, when her mother had sacrificed so much for their people? Sighing, she leaned her head against the wall, watching the rain trickle down the window, looking like tears.

 


	2. How do we carry on?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the war, Arya is searching for some peace and quiet, and a reason to keep going.

Arya sighed. The war was finally over - after all this time, they'd won - and Arya had no idea what to do with herself. She could go back to being an ambassador...but all that held was bad memories of Durza capturing her and Fäolin's death. Once she had been able to consider the idea without breaking down and crying, she had toyed with the possibility of taking her place as her mother's successor, but she had disregarded that plan for a number of reasons - the main one being that she was entirely unsuited to ruling. Besides, she doubted her ability to take her mother's place. She could potentially aid Eragon, and possibly Murtagh, with founding the Riders anew, but she wasn't a Rider herself, and it would be little more than interfering.

For hours now, she'd been wandering around Ilirea, trying to find something to occupy herself with, and she was still coming up blank. With a glance at the sky, she headed back to the palace - no point getting caught in the rain.

 

* * *

 

Two hours later, she was walking back to the rooms she was staying in, running through all the curses she knew and heaping them on Nasuada's head. She just had to make it public knowledge that Arya had killed Shruikan (something which she felt she would never stop regretting. No matter that he was insane - one did not lightly kill a dragon), and half the city had seemed intent on congratulating and thanking her.

When she got to her rooms, Arya locked the door behind her. She walked straight through the sitting room, not bothering to start a fire in the fireplace and collapsed onto her bed, indulging in a few moment of laziness. She was just about to enter her waking dreams when someone knocked at the door. She hauled herself upright and reluctantly opened it. Eragon was on the other side. He began to greet her, but Arya waved formalities aside and welcomed him in. She was far too tired for ceremony this evening, especially with one of the few people she called friend. He sat in one of the armchairs and she took the other, both sitting in companionable silence for a moment. He lit the fire with a flick of his wrist and a murmured word.

Arya looked at Eragon. “What do we do now?” she asked. He sighed, but didn't answer. “My whole life dedicated to this,” she muttered. “An empty room, with two of the most important people in Alagäesia hiding from the crowds.” She glanced at Eragon, and briefly fought with herself for a moment, before giving in and asking the question she had wanted to ask for months. “How did you win?” she asked. “Against all the odds, what keeps you going?” He gave her a curious glance, before staring into the fire and sighing again.

“When my uncle died,” he said quietly, “I couldn't go on. I was alone, adrift in the world. Then Saphira urged me to look into my heart and see what I wanted.” He paused. “And I saw that I wanted revenge. I wanted to kill the Ra'zac.” Arya waited, silently. “Then I wanted to get to the Varden, to make sure that Brom was right, that I was a Dragon Rider, that I was the hope that the Varden had been waiting for. When Murtagh...” he trailed off, then began again. “When Murtagh went missing, I wanted to become better, to make sure that that would never again happen to someone that I counted family. Then Roran came and I went to rescue Katrina and kill the Ra'zac.” This time there was a longer silence, but just when Arya was about to speak he continued. “That left me...curiously empty. I had achieved my first purpose, finally, and that had left me with an emptiness inside, where there had once been a purpose, a driving _need_ to accomplish something. That is all life is, Arya, to find a great purpose to fill our lives and then to go on and find another, and another, until we draw our final breath. I chose to continue fighting for what was good a long time ago and that is what I will continue to do until the day I die.”

Arya was silent for a long moment. “So that is all that you wish to accomplish?” she asked.

“No. There is something else that I wish, but it will take many years and much patience.” He smiled at her. “But I'm willing to wait.”


	3. Did you love him?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What does Arya think when Eragon asks her about Fäolin?

Arya lay awake for many hours that night, staring at the distant stars above, their conversation replaying over and over in her mind.

 

“ _Did you love him?”_

 

Such an innocent question, a marked contrast to the memories and question it had sparked. And then her sense of honour had compelled her to add what she had not wished to, revealing more than she ought to have.

 

“ _How would you define love?”_

 

Had she really asked that question? Of him? Even if he had considered it rhetorical, it was still saying more than she had wanted to.

 

She turned over, trying to get comfortable, and found herself staring at Eragon. _Did he know?_ She wondered. _Had he guessed?_ Guessed that maybe her question was honest, and heartfelt?

 

How would he define love? She knew that he loved her, or at least thought he did, and she wanted to know what he thought that it was, because she had no idea.

 

Not now.

 

Not after Fäolin had died.

 

Not after something in her had died, at the hands of that Shade.

 

She shook her head. No. She did not want to remember that. Those long days of pain and grief, and the memory of Fäolin falling, dying, and being unable to run to him, unable to do anything but try to run from that Shade. And then the terror that she would never be found, never rescued, the conviction that her mother would not search, that the Varden would not know where to begin searching.

 

 _Enough!_ She told herself sternly. _Don't think of him now. Rest, sleep, wake up tomorrow, and get that idioticly heroic Rider back to his dragon._ She closed her eyes, willing sleep to come and save her from such dark thoughts.

 

And for once it did. Memories ruled her dreams, as they almost always did nowadays, but instead of dreaming of the Shade or Fäolin's death, she dreamt of the time that they had together, walking beside the river, his laugh on the wind, and the passion in his eyes when he spoke of the return of the Riders, and what he hoped to change of the world. Oh, they had been young and foolish, and so in love. In her dreams, she knew love, and knew that it was what she felt for Fäolin. She refused to deny that.

 

But still in her dream echoed Eragon's question, insistent, pernicious;

 

“ _Did you love him?”_


	4. Too much of my father

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is Arya thinking when she reconciles with her mother again?

Arya sat down on her bed, in her own rooms again, at last, feeling curiously empty. She had been dreading this moment ever since she had woken up in Tronjheim – the moment when she was reunited with her mother again.

The last time that they had spoken properly – as a daughter to her mother – they'd been arguing. But then, there was nothing especially odd about that, was there? Arya shook her head, a bitter smile on her lips. No, she had always argued with her mother. It was the one of the constants of life – the sun will rise and set, winter will come and go and the chances of Arya and IslanzadÍ agreeing on a topic is more unlikely than the return of the Riders. Except both had now happened, hadn't they? Maybe that was why she felt like the ground underneath her was going to vanish any moment.

According to several older elves, her mother and father had always argued as well, and she had taken some small comfort from that. However there was one difference between Arya and her father.

IslanzadÍ would never have refused to acknowledge him as family.

Oh no, she loved _him._

Arya sighed, standing and restlessly walking around the room, picking up books and then putting them down again, still...unsettled by what had happened.

She had walked in there, ready to be treated as she always had been, and dreading it. She had been missing for over a year, and she hadn't wanted her mother to just dismiss her or what she had suffered, and just treat her as an ambassador.

Arya sighed. In the beginning, she had welcomed her mother's emotional detachment. _She is giving me a chance,_ she had naïvely believed. _She is accepting that I can do this, and is just distancing herself because she is still angry._ However, her mother had remained cold and distant, and Arya had despaired of ever reconciling. Every time she visited Ellesméra, her mother's silence had hurt her more and more, until even remaining in her presence had been a test of endurance.

So, walking back into her childhood home, the dust of seventy years on her boots and the tortures of Durza wrapped around her like a cloak, she had wanted, desperately, for her mother to treat her like a daughter again, and not just as any other elf.

Except, she hadn't truly expected it, and now... She wasn't sure that she was ready for them to be family again.

70 years was a very long time, even for elves. When she had first left she hadn't expected them to be estranged for so long, but as the years passed, and IslanzadÍ was still as distant as ever, well, she began to think of her as family less and less, until she was just a vague and distant figure that she had never really known, residing under the title of 'queen'.

Arya became more of an ambassador and less and less of a princess...or a daughter, and IslanzadÍ became more of a queen and less of a mother.

She could still vaguely remember her father. She could still remember his voice and his laughter, but as time passed his face became more and more difficult to recall. His death was the catalyst, she thought. Her mother was broken by grief, and she was still too young to understand.

That was when IslanzadÍ started to become distant. Arya had never understood it when she was growing up, never understood why her work and her duty became more important to her than Arya was.

But she understood it now.

_Oh yes,_ she thought grimly. _I understand it now._

You see, she had far, far too much of her father in her.

And that was the one thing that her mother could not bear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to read more about Arya and Islanzadí reconciling, I recommend To Reconcile With You by Don't Abandon Hope on ff.net


	5. Skilna Bragh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is Arya thinking during her rescue?

Arya could feel the poison working its way through her veins, burning in her blood. If she had the energy she'd be tossing and turning, but she didn't so all she could do was wait and cling to the small thread of hope that was getting thinner by the second.

In Gil'ead she'd lost all hope of rescue, resolving only to die before she revealed anything to her captors.

Then she'd looked up and seen the boy standing in the door to her cell, and she knew that the time had come, that he was taking her to Galbatorix. But, as she collapsed, she noticed that his eyes were kind and his expression distraught.

She'd known he was a Rider the second he touched her mind, but she had fought back in fear that he was one of Galbatorix's servants. When she found out otherwise, hope had filled her again, as it had during the first days of her captivity, but it soon dwindled.

He was so young! And he was taking so long to get to the Varden that she began to fear that he would never make it and she would die, just when she'd been rescued, an ironic turn of events equal to any of the great tragedies that she had read when she was young.

She took another gulping breath, fighting for each gasp of air. The poison was sapping her strength, and soon she wouldn't have strength even for that. The only thing that kept her going, apart from the slim hope that she might reach the Varden, was the knowledge that she couldn't die and face Fäolin unless she had given everything to their cause.

She didn't know why this would trouble her – she didn't believe in the afterlife and Fäolin would never blame her – but it was the only thing that made her fight the heaviness weighing down her chest enough to take a quick gasp of air.

She could almost see him in front of her: a figure outlined against the forest he loved. He smiled at her gently. _“Come on, Arya,”_ he whispered, taking her hands. _“You can't die now. You'd never forgive yourself.”_ The absurdity of her situation hit Arya – not only was she dying, but she was also losing her mind – and she used that laughter, that sudden love for life, to keep breathing. _“Eragon's nearly there. You just need to fight for a little longer.”_

Arya took another breath, feeling the weakness in her heart, faltering in its beat. F ä olin was gone now, and the aching loss tore at her again. She would have cried, if she had the strength. She tried to take another breath, but the weight on her chest was suddenly too heavy, and she didn't seem to mind anyway, as the blackness pulled her down.

* * *

 

Later, when she awoke in Tronjheim, she would cry for the peace that she had lost, and F ä olin and Glenwing, and everything she had suffered at Durza'a hands. And then she would shake her head, and put on her mask, and go rescue the young Rider from the Twins. And she would think of her mother, and Du Weldenvarden and feel relief at being there again, soon.


	6. Unfair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is set after Arya breaks Eragon's fairth of her and after the Blood-Oath celebration in Eldest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a slight mention of nightmares due to a traumatic event here - just to let everyone know. Also, I have some chapters already typed to post, but any suggestions are welcome.

Arya woke abruptly, a scream caught in her throat, her hands clutching at the sheets. She gasped for breath, waiting for the hammering of her heart to slow. She closed her eyes, feeling tears threatening.

She didn't want to cry about this. Not again. Hadn't she wasted enough tears already? She shook her head, angrily wiping at the tears with the back of her hand and staring at the ceiling. _It's funny,_ she thought bleakly, _when I was actually there, I never cried. I just coped. But now..._

She sat up and swung her legs out of bed. She'd go walk under the trees for a while, and hope that the noises of the forest would soothe the night terrors. She'd barely slept for a whole night since returning to Ellesmèra, and even knowing that Durza was dead, that Saphira had hatched, that her mother had accepted her and she was safe here in Du Weldenvarden could stop her dreaming.

Every single night she saw Fäolin die, or suffered at the hands of Durza. Even though elves didn't dream as humans did and were not at the mercy of their nightmares so, she still dreaded sleep. She knew she couldn't skip sleeping altogether - they were at war and Ellesmèra was one of the few peaceful places left. She couldn't afford to allow lack of sleep to affect her - she was ambassador to the Varden and sat in on the war councils. No, she had to sleep. But even knowing that didn't stop her staying awake for longer and longer, trying desperately to put off the moment when she would have to close her eyes and surrender herself to her dreams. She knew that it was beginning to show. Only yesterday she'd snapped when Eragon had made that fairth of her, and she knew that if she had been fully in control then it never would have happened.

She opened the door and slipped out, her mind uselessly retracing old memories. She'd been so stupid! She should have noticed the way he was becoming infatuated with her and put her foot down, stopped him in his tracks. He didn't mean anything by it. He couldn't know why the fairth had been so painful for her.

Fäolin had made a fairth of her once, calling her beautiful and citing his fairth as proof. She'd accused him of 'looking at her through rose-tinted spectacles' and he'd just laughed. Later he'd brazenly confessed his love for her, and then she had laughed and affectionately called him foolish. He hadn't cared; he knew he'd won. He knew he'd shocked her.

Arya shook her head angrily. Could she not even think in a straight line anymore? The point was, she wasn't getting enough sleep. She hoped that Eragon hadn't noticed that she was acting oddly; she knew that Oromis had. And her mother probably had as well. Arya sighed. Something needed to be done.

* * *

 

Arya collapsed on her bed, tears already rolling down her cheeks. They were both so similar! The elves had been celebrating when Fäolin had confessed his love as well - he had always been romantic and couldn't have declared himself on an ordinary day. He'd even planned a speech. Unlike Eragon, who'd just seized the occasion to confess his infatuation. _The fool,_ she thought bitterly. _Can't he see how much it hurts for him to go around acting like a love-sick idiot all the time? I don't enjoy ripping his heart to shreds. Couldn't he just forget me? Is it so difficult for him to just focus on his studies?_

She'd been amazed when she saw what the dragons had done, and the way they had tried to help him in his mission to end Galbatorix, but then he had to go and ruin all her enjoyment of the celebration. She'd never be able to think of the Agaetí Blödhren now, without remembering all of this guilt and shame.

She turned and buried her face in her pillow, ignoring the sounds of the elvish celebration outside her window, shaking with silent sobs. It wasn't fair, for him or her. Why did he have to be so like Fäolin? Why did he have to fall for her? And the worst question of all – what was she going to do?

Even though she was loathe to contemplate the idea, Arya knew she'd have to leave. Leave, and hope that Eragon would forget her. Even as she speculated about packing she felt resentful that she should be driven away when she had only just been reunited with her mother; it was her home after all and it was his fault. _It's not fair,_ she thought.

However, she of all people knew that nothing in life was fair.


	7. Solace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why do we not ever see Arya grieve for her mother?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know I've kind of visited this topic before, but it really irritates me. Also, this is more from Eragon's perspective than Arya's.

Arya said the most when she was silent. You couldn't listen to the words she said, because if Arya was anything then she was a diplomat, and she hid herself behind so many masks, but you could listen to what she didn't say.

Eragon had learnt to listen to her silences, whether it be the amused silences, when he'd done something stupid again, or the angry silences, when he'd said something wrong, or the thoughtful silences when he'd said something meaningful and surprised her, or even the sad silences, such as the one now.

As they sat in the tower where Nasuada had just been proclaimed queen, watching the sun sink lower on the horizon, he mused that he'd also learnt to listen to the words she didn't say. Like now.

She hadn't said that she wasn't fine, or that he needn't worry; she'd said that he shouldn't worry.

She hadn't said that she missed her mother, but that didn't mean that she didn't.

So now Eragon was listening very very hard, waiting for another word that she wouldn't say.

He'd offered his condolences, yes, and she'd accepted them politely, formally, but not really.

He had the feeling that nothing he could say would mean anything to her.

Because she hadn't said that she wasn't feeling guilty, either, and he _knew_ Arya. In fact, he was probably one of the few people left who actually knew her at all.

And he knew that she would hate the fact that she hadn't been with her mother, hadn't been able to protect her mother, that she'd been protecting him instead.

So he'd sat down next to her, and now he sat watching the sunset with her.

He carefully reached out and took her hand, squeezing it gently. She glanced up at him, her emerald eyes swimming with sorrow. He thought very quickly; he didn't want to say something wrong here. Saphira was a constant presence in his mind, watching what he was going to say with the same intensity that he was.

“I know that there's really nothing I can say,” he said slowly. “I've lost people that I care about, and I know that saying 'sorry' doesn't work, and I know that saying 'I understand' doesn't help either, but I'm going to say them anyway.” He paused, wondering if he should go on – she still hadn't said anything, or even done anything – but he decided to keep going.

“So I'm sorry. And I understand how you're feeling. And I know that you probably just want to be left alone, but I'm saying this because I want you to know that I'm here and I understand, and I don't mind if you cry or if you just walk away, as long as you know that.”

Arya still didn't move, but she didn't leave, which he guessed was a good thing. Just as he resigned himself to the fact that he'd done something wrong, she moved. She looked up at the stars and let out a shaky breath.

She didn't say anything, but her silence spoke a thousand words, and as she leaned into his shoulder, Eragon could understand every single one of them.


	8. In Gil'ead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A snapshot of Arya's thoughts while she is imprisoned in Gil'ead

Arya drifted in and out of consciousness, not that she could really tell the difference any more. She was constantly racked by pain, and the line between wakefulness and dreaming grew ever slimmer. She was fairly sure that she was hallucinating, or perhaps losing her mind. The Shade would appear even in her dreams now, to try and force her to give up the location of Ellesmèra.

He didn't know that she would never give up. She would rather die than betray her people.

She had told him that, when he had first captured her, but he had just laughed, saying she would change her mind soon enough.

And now that that time was approaching – the time when she must either break or die – she realised that she didn't fear it. She'd come too close to death too many times to fear it now. She almost welcomed it, in fact, and her pain-racked mind struggled to think of a reason why she shouldn't just give up.

She thought with frustrating slowness, gradually piecing together memories and old hopes and dreams, sometimes reliving her memories as though she was there, struggling to piece together a line of thought.

A dragon egg, she thought finally. There was a dragon egg. She knew she had sent it to safety, though she dared not think his name, but she had wanted to see dragon riders in the sky again, she remembered.

She had wanted so much, once.

Now, with pain and delusion distorting her thoughts, all she wanted was to know the answer to one question.

She had felt a presence watching over her many times now, as her fevered mind reached for solace wherever she could find it. She didn't know who, or what it was, or even if it really existed, but she had felt the watcher's eyes on her, had felt their presence.

They weren't malignant, as far as she could tell, but caring and naïve.

And they were probably a product of her deluded imagination, she admitted candidly to herself, but it was nice to think that she had her own guardian angel watching over her.

She heard a commotion outside her cell, and struggled to lift her head. Was someone there? She could see blackness at the edges of her vision, and knew that she wouldn't have long. She strained to hear, and then froze at the sound of someone opening her cell. Despair threatened to engulf her as she waited with bated breath for the Shade to appear.

Instead she saw a boy. He couldn't have been older than sixteen, and she had never seen him before.

He didn't look like one of Galbatorix's soldiers – their eyes were cold and cruel.

His eyes were warm and caring, and shocked when they looked at her, with a hint of determination and nobility.

Arya wondered if she was imagining everything she thought she saw in his eyes. But she couldn't deny that he had the same caring look that she had always imagined in the eyes of her guardian angel.


End file.
